Mistletoe Mania
by WhoLockedAndProud
Summary: Suspicious bunches of mistletoe are left all over John and Sherlock's flat...


Mistletoe Mania

(or, Kissing Paranoia)

*I do not own the lovely Benedict Cumberbatch, the ever cuddly Martin Freeman, or the series Sherlock. But in a parallel universe I do.

Here, I don't.*

GUYS, CHRISMASFIC

It was Christmastime in 221B Baker Street. The flat glowed warmly from the fire, and the few, but festive strands of fairy lights winked lazily in the dim room. A small Christmas tree, full and green, was covered in shiny baubles. Even Sherlock's skull had a little Santa hat on.

Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson were leaving, with small presents (both given and received), and a hug and peck on the cheek (Mrs. Hudson). Empty glasses of both alcoholic and non-alcoholic apple cider dotted the kitchen table, and everyone was pleasantly tipsy- if not on the drinks, then on the cheer that emanated from their cosy little home.

Only Sherlock and John remained. The younger Holmes was curled on the floor, covered by a mound of blankets and smothered in pillows. John was reading peacefully on the couch, half-listening to the departing words at the door. Then a loud squeal and a deep chuckle came floating up, along with Mrs. Hudson's pleased titters.

They both startled slightly at this, confused. A glance at the approaching figure of their housekeeper-excuse me, landlady- prompted her to explain.

"Lestrade kissed Molly, bless their dear little hearts!"

Bafflement and confusion came in waves from the men, mostly John, since Sherlock was partially dozing.

"I didn't think those two-"

"No, no, just a friendly little peck- it was the mistletoe, you see."

She gave a meaningful glance around the room, towards the ceiling, then, with a cheerful little 'Good night, boys!' Mrs. Hudson was gone.

John was still baffled, and looked up after she had departed.

Oh.

_Oh._

_OH._

The ceiling was peppered with bunches of mistletoe, all over the place. John gulped. Mrs. Hudson must have planted the darn things while they were out on a case, the clever little woman.

But how many times did he have to tell people?

They. Were. Not. _TOGETHER._

By now, Sherlock was blinking stupidly at the bright greens above him( the look was surprisingly endearing, and very adorable on the detective).

"John, when did you decide to grow a garden of poisonous flora on the ceiling of our flat?"

"Sherlock, do you not know the holiday use of mistletoe?"

"Inconsequential. Whatever bit of information I find sentimental and.._unimportant_, I delete from my…mind palace."

"Oh, yeah, like that time you didn't know the Earth went around the su-"

"IT WAS ONCE, and how is that important, hmm?"

"Little children know this, and you don't! I, frankly, find it hilarious."

"We are not going to start this again, John. Now, you were lecturing me on the mistletoe and its various uses, yes?"

"_Fine._ Mistletoe, when two people are standing under one, the, um, they," and here the doctor mumbled something softly.

"They what, John? Do cartwheels? Strip naked? Sing? Do speak up, John."

"KISS. They kiss, alright? When you stand under mistletoe with another person, you kiss them. Frankly, it's a stupid tradition, makes no sense at all."

"Sentiments usually don't, John, and neither do traditions. Yet people insist on clinging to them with every fiber of their existence."

The doctor didn't know how to respond to this.

"Er, if you're done, then, uh, I suppose I'll get to bed now. It's a bit late,"

A glance at a nonexistent watch on his wrist, and then the room is empty but for Sherlock and his skull.

"What do you make of that, eh? Looks like I have another…experiment."

The next day brought another flurry of snow and drizzle, gloomy but comfortable, and families were nestled at home.

John stood in the kitchen making his morning cup of tea, as per usual. He was, however, right underneath a cheerful sprig of the unassuming plant.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, elegantly stroking away on his violin, playing a jaunty tune.

"I'll have one too, John. Two sugars and no milk."

"_Thank you, John,"_ He mumbled to himself mockingly. _" I appreciate your hard work."_

"Yes, I do, John, but since we're such good friends and can read each other's minds, I hardly need to say that to you, now do I?"

The voice came from his right, and Watson whirled around to see Sherlock, sans violin, standing over him, tall and imposing. He reaches around John and grabs the cup of tea, leaning in far closer than was necessary to his flatmate. With a delicate slurp and a pleased sigh, the liquid is drained and the man disappears once again. John rolls his eyes up in annoyance, and catches the flicker of green above his head. _Sherlock must have noticed it. He never misses anything, but he chose to ignore the mistletoe instead, _muses John. _He's..afraid?_John shakes his head with a smile, and laughs at Mrs. Hudson's poor attempts at getting him and Sherlock together.

Sherlock was getting on John's nerves, playing the violin all day, and wandering aimlessly through the rooms they share. Going without a case for a week was making him restless, and he passed John several times, the strains of the tortured instruments screeching in the seated man's ear every few minutes.

The doctor was reading (a cup of tea at his elbow, in case of emergency). He tuned out the shrieks and squeals of the violin.

He also doesn't notice the large, leafy bundle of mistletoe above his head.

Sherlock does, however. He knows it's there without looking, because he put it there.

Another round of the room, another screech in his ear, and then, Sherlock's foot catches on one of the chair legs, and John tumbles onto the ground, the chair lying on its side a few inches away.

Sherlock is splayed over John, chest and arms draped perpendicular over his. It's an elegant flop, and the shorter man wonders if Sherlock practices looking neat in the mirror.

The detective is hiding a smirk in his shoulder.

_Three, two, one._

"Ah."

The other man finally notices the mistletoe. How could he, when there's a giant parasitic leafy mass right in his face?

"Sherlock, er, look up, would you?"

He obeys, and puts on a mask of mild bewilderment when he sees it.

"Did Mrs. Hudson do that?"

"I suppose. Probably with the use of a ladder, by the look of those scuffs on the floor. See, several centimeters apart, but equally spaced, and four of them. Probably a fold out ladder."

"Yes, Sherlock, but, the mistletoe."

"I do see it, John. I'm not blind."

"Well, remember last night, when I told you about, um, its purpose?"

"That I do, John."

And with that, Sherlock stretches his neck (the two have been having the conversation sprawled over the floor), and gives John a chaste peck on the mouth. With one fluid movement, Sherlock swoops the violin into his long fingers, and spins away, swaying slightly to the melody, and out of the room.

**please review. see, I'm not above begging. please. please.**


End file.
